Walking Off
by macgyvershe
Summary: On shot. Sherlock pisses John off, again. Will John walk away...forever?


**Walking Off**

He was walking away, again. He'd got hot under the collar and he was walking out into the cold of a London winter night. He'd put on his winter coat and luckily his warm gloves and alpaca hat were in the pockets so at least he wouldn't freeze off anything important.

Sherlock was so impossibly great at pushing his buttons and this was so uncalled for. John stuffed his hands in his pockets and hurried his pace. He would have to get his blood surging even more than his anger was propelling it now to keep warm on this cold night.

Onward he marched in a determined walk that spoke of his military bearing. The farther he walked from home the more his anger frothed and fumed and subsided. He was not a man to hold to darkness. He was not that man at all.

Over time John had grown so deeply involved with Sherlock and these out-breaks had become less and less. He'd hoped over time they were dissipate altogether.

"I can't go back right away. I was not in the wrong and I deserve better treatment." John commented to no one at all.

"You really do." A melodic baritone voice spoke from behind him. His soft tone breathes of remorse and begs forgiveness.

John stops and turns to find Sherlock in his great coat without his scarf, gloves or hat.

"I was too caustic and you were correct in taking me down." Sherlock said with his eyes slightly down cast. "Please come back home. You shouldn't be out in this weather, John. Please."

"Is this Sherlock Holmes, the world's greatest and only consulting detective saying please more than once?" John was flabbergasted.

"I was afraid I'd pushed you too hard. I was afraid you wouldn't come back, John. You are the one person in my life who always comes back to me. Always. I just couldn't bear to lose you. That would be the end of me."

Sherlock wasn't portraying these emotions of regret. John had seen him do it before. He was the consummate actor. Turning on the tears to get an answer from suspects, behaving like a victim if he wanted to gain entrance into Irene Adler's abode. He could charm the pants off or on to anyone, except John. There was no deluding John. There was not faking John out. John could read him like a very old and much loved book. Sherlock was being honest and contrite; so very out of character for him, so very unSherlockian.

John could see that Sherlock was cold. His great coat was open to the blasted winter wind. John stepped forward and closed the coat, buttoning the front up.

"You great git, what the hell are you doing out without gloves, your scarf and a hat?" John was going to pull his gloves off when he remembered they wouldn't fit on Sherlock's overly long hands. "We need to get you back home and warm you up." John removed his scarf and wrapped it around Sherlock's long swan-like exposed neck.

"You did this on purpose, knowing that even if I was still angry I couldn't bear to see you freezing your arse off."

"Thought did occur," Sherlock said with a wry tiny smile appearing on his kissable lips. "Lucky it was snowing or I'd have lost your trail."

"You, flagrantly foolish, unbelievably gittish and pain-in-the-arse ignoramus," John sputtered. He turned Sherlock around and pushed him in the direction of home.

"How is it that even when I know you are manipulating me, I still take the bait? Like the fish with the biggest mouth in the world."

"But you are my fish, John," Sherlock replies. He turns then and suddenly engulfs John in a huge Sherlock hug.

"I'm sorry, John," he says into John's scarf as he buries his head into John's neck. "Forgive me?"

"Okay, already. I forgive you." John says grabbing Sherlock's hand like he is an errant child and pulls him toward home. "Let's get home and I'll put on some tea. Maybe after you've warmed up by the fire you can play me some soothing violin music."

"Of course," Sherlock says. "I'll do whatever you want me to, John."

"Be careful what you promise, Sherlock. My wish list is longer than I am." John smiles and finds that Sherlock's long legs are putting him in front and now Sherlock is pulling him along.

"I am a man of my word," Sherlock says as the winds pick up and blows swirls of snow about them.

"So you are," John knows. "I know you are."

With Sherlock's long legs propelling them on they make it back to their warm and cozy flat in no time at all. Leaving their coats to drain downstairs they move up the stair and are greeted with the smell of fresh biscuits. John gives Sherlock a questioning look.

"I had some biscuits called up. They are barely out of the oven when I left to find you."

John shakes his head. "We are like a flipping married couple who know each other so well. You knew I'd come back and here is yet another "forgive me" what has you so worked up Sherlock?"

"When you left this time, John, you slammed the door…hard. You've never done that before. There was such a finality in that sharp sound."

"Sherlock, the wind was blowing, I didn't hold tight and the door smashed into the door jamb pretty hard. I didn't slam the door the winter wind did."

"Still, I feared the worst, that you would keep walking, walk away from me all together. So I want to propose a safe word."

John smiled and bit his lip a bit looking down at his shoes.

"Are you suggesting that we have a dominate-submissive sexual relationship, Sherlock?"

"Why is everything about sex with you, John? I am merely pointing out that when I'm flaring, pointlessly, obsessively, you might just cut into it with a reminder that I don't want to go through the terrible fear and anxiety that I felt tonight when I heard the front door slam shut."

"I know that, I was being a bit sarcastic. What word do you want to use, Sherlock?"

"How about Hamish, John, that is not something that you would say every day?"

"Hamish," John said with solemnity.

Sherlock took the name and the voice that said it and etched it deeply into his psyche. Whenever John said his middle name Sherlock would travel back to this night and remember what he'd almost lost and he would stop. Stop cold in his tracks and steer clear of the rocks of disaster and into the calmer waters of his cherished friendship.


End file.
